Twenty-seven years ago, I walked onto the campus of Snow College in Ephraim, Utah, feeling completely on top of the world. I had moved from my very small hometown of Ferron to what felt like a bustling college town. Now, if you’ve ever been to Snow College, you might laugh at the word bustling, but for me, there was a lot going on. They were even putting in a stoplight—not to be confused with the red and green lights we only used at Christmas time.

At that point in my life, I was confident and didn’t carry many insecurities. By the time I graduated high school, I had been on the volleyball team where we won the state championship. I also ran track and placed second in region in the high jump, qualifying for state every year. I volunteered regularly in my community, helping with Jr. Jazz basketball camps and working closely with my church. Because I grew up in a small town, I knew a lot of people and had many friends.

This was an exciting time for me. I was nervous, but the excitement felt like being a little kid on Christmas morning, wide awake and waiting to see what Santa had brought.

Fast forward seven years.

I’m now packing my bags—with three kids—and moving to California for my husband’s new job. I went from cruising down dirt roads without a soul in sight to sitting in traffic on a seven-lane freeway. To get anywhere, I had to take two freeways and play leapfrog across lanes just to reach the nearest Walmart, only five miles away.

That carefree girl I once knew—the one ready to take on the world—was nowhere to be found. In her place was a very insecure version of me, one who liked to hide from the world, sometimes literally in the back of her closet on the worst days. If I needed to go out, I’d give myself an hour-long pep talk, repeating, “YOU CAN DO THIS!” and not really believing it.

This was where I lost sight of who I was.

I felt alone—that gut-wrenching feeling of not being good enough, all tangled up with fear, sadness, and insecurity. I didn’t fit in. I wasn’t raised in a city; my way of life and my culture were completely different from what I was now facing. My family lived states away, my husband worked long hours at an intense job, and I had no one to turn to.

No one around me was like me.

Living on the border of Orange County, I became painfully aware that I didn’t look the part. My Wrangler jeans and Walmart sneakers didn’t exactly blend in with dress pants and stilettos—the outfits moms wore to pick up their kids from kindergarten. This was where I unknowingly met imposter syndrome.

To be honest, I wouldn’t hear that term until years later, when my daughter told me she had imposter syndrome. I had to Google it because I’d never heard of it before. Growing up, we just called it self-doubt and insecurity.

This season of my life taught me one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned—and one I’m still learning. It’s not something you master or perfect. It’s something you practice.

Being you is the best thing you can be—whatever that looks like.

It’s also something I try to teach my girls.

One day, one of my daughters told me she was going to a bonfire with friends. At the time, we were living in Arizona in a smaller community. There was a big open field where people gathered, built bonfires, and did some country dancing. I grew up in that kind of environment, so it felt familiar to me.

I suggested she wear cowboy boots and throw on a flannel jacket. I had plenty of both in my closet. Her response surprised me.

“I can’t,” she said. “I’d have imposter syndrome.”

She had grown up in California and Phoenix—more city culture—and this country-style activity felt foreign to her. I understood where she was coming from, but I also realized something important: no one is an expert at anything without starting somewhere.

If you have an interest or a desire to try something new, don’t stand on the sidelines. Don’t let it pass you by because you’re worried about what someone else might think—or worse, what that small, insecure voice in your head tells you about who you’re allowed to be.

If you want to go to a country bonfire and you love the country look, be country.
If you want to go back to school at forty-seven, be a student.
If you take a communication class that asks you to keep a blog and find yourself—become a blogger.

Don’t let the fear of finding yourself define who you are.

You should always be looking for your next adventure—and when you find it, jump in. Learn about it. Experience it. Try it on and see if it fits. I never would’ve known how much I love wearing Lululemon leggings if I had let the imposter syndrome of “I can’t do that—I don’t do yoga or have the right body” decide that part of me.

My best advice for anyone who asks?

Fake it until you make it—if it’s something you want.

Because in the end, the only person who truly cares if you belong…
is you.

And maybe one day, you’ll look back and realize you weren’t faking it at all—you were just learning who you are.